


real people do

by crookedqueen



Series: howling ghosts, they reappear [bellamy finds her, every time] [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedqueen/pseuds/crookedqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clearing her throat, Clarke moves his books with the edge of her sketchbook. “Hey, personal space?” Bellamy continues reading, slightly amused, mostly uninterested. “Nope.” || bellamy + clarke as backpackers who keep meeting in europe</p>
            </blockquote>





	real people do

**Author's Note:**

> this is part of my bellarke au series, which I also have graphics up for on tumblr. 
> 
> [http://crooked-queen.tumblr.com/tagged/bellarke-au]

> _So I will not ask you where you came from.  
>  I would not ask and neither would you._

_\- london -_

They don’t meet in a coffee shop, air hazy with almost glances and foreign fog, the smell of espressos and summer drugging the tourists and wakening the locals, that slow whisper of global possibility egging them all on.

They don’t meet underneath the Eiffel Tower, grass prickling her back, flattening underneath his sneakers, tasting lights with their eyes, because stories like those are too perfect.

Clarke and Bellamy’s? Not even close.

And so they meet on a crowded train from London, en route to Paris. The air is sticky, her hair is matted to the back of her neck with sweat, and her fingertips are bleeding ink and pastels as she hovers over her sketchbook. Outside, a blur of fields and trees and ocean blue blurs past, and Clarke captures it in watercolor and black lines with a steady hand - 

A stack of books slams onto the table in front of her, sends the table shaking, her hand skids off the page.

Clarke glares up at her intruder, a boy with black hair all in his eyes, a forest green tee hugging his tan skin. He spreads his legs out across the aisle, doesn’t even look at her as he stretches one arm behind his head and begins to read. Clarke can’t quite read the title.

Clearing her throat, Clarke moves his books with the edge of her sketchbook. “Hey, personal space?”

Bellamy continues reading, slightly amused, mostly uninterested. “Nope.”

Clarke presses her lips together in disdain, returns to her sketching. But as she draws, locks of raven hair and olive skin find their way into the view. She lets out a frustrated huff. Her seat neighbor is the kind of boy who’s beautiful when you pay attention; his eyes hold depth, the lines on his face tell stories, his lips mouth the words as they read, slowly, as if he’s memorized them.

Not that it matters. Not that Clarke notices.

“Enjoying yourself?”  


Oh God. He’s talking to her. _Because she’s staring at him, drawing the line of his nose, with her mouth open_.

“Look, I’m not going to move,” Clarke says, shifting to stare out at the window.  


“Funny, I don’t remember asking you to,” he replies gruffly. His eyes meet hers, then glance down at her pale blue baggage set, a pretty duffel and a big backpack, both stark clean. Beside them sits his ruddy khaki knapsack. 

With a little smile, he finishes, “ _Princess_.”

-

It’s not even halfway into their train ride when the boy seems to abandon ship, stretches his arms over his head again, then takes off down the aisle.

Clarke is not disappointed, she reminds herself. _Not disappointed_.

Especially not when he returns twenty minutes later with two sandwiches in hand, drops one in front of her and returns to his reading. She only dares to look at him a half hour later, while they’re silently eating and his book is safely on the table.

 _The Prince_ , Clarke realizes his book cover reads. Machiavelli. 

-

_\- paris -_

-

The boy is gone, and Paris is on fire.

It’s autumn, and Clarke should be stepping foot on campus back at home, not on old cobblestone, bags in hand, hair falling from its loose chignon. She inhales as she walks along the Seine, as little French boys and girls chase each other around the gardens, as the sorbet in her hand drips onto her clenched fist.

When Clarke reaches the Eiffel Tower, a single tear rolls down the side of her face before she swipes it away. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the sight is.

All Clarke sees is twisted metal and lights like flame.

-

The Abbey Bookshop is in the fifth arrondissement, far from the clammy handed tourists pouring over the torn paperbacks in Shakespeare and Co. Clarke can’t stomach the crowd, and when the smell of yellowed pages and old leather hits her, she knows she’s in the right place.

She’s thumbing a battered copy of _Atom and Void_ when the boy, much like life, sneaks up on her.

“Interesting choice, princess,” he commends her, an open book in his hand as he leans against one of the shelves.  


“What are you doing here?”  


Bellamy raises a brow. “Pretty sure the train dropped us off in the same place.”

“No, _here_ ,” Clarke repeats, glancing around for the bookshop keeper. “Did you...follow me off the train?”  


“Better question,” Bellamy retorts, “were you born believing that the world revolves around you, or is that something you have to convince yourself of  everyday?” 

At her stiff stance, Bellamy rolls his eyes, replaces his book with a new one from the shelf. “Relax, princess. Same idea as you. Not looking for a tourist trap, shamelessly outspoken, yet dangerously introverted.”  


In the time it takes Clarke to look away, Bellamy’s already perusing the next aisle.

“Clarke,” she calls out to him. 

She can see him smile in the gap between books.  


“Okay.”  


Clarke flushes until he speaks again.

“Bellamy.”  


-

Don’t call it a crush, just call it fascination.

Neither of them acknowledge the other as they sit with their feet hanging over the Seine. Bellamy reads, Clarke draws. They don’t brush hands, they don’t flirt. But when a soft wind carries one of Clarke’s drawings a little too close to the stone near the water, Bellamy captures it just in time.

Maybe they don’t have to.

-

“Come on, princess,” Bellamy says suddenly, shooting up from his seat, slinging his sack over one shoulder. He grabs one of Clarke’s bags along with him. “Louvre’s about to close.”  


Clarke raises a brow. “Not too cool for a tourist trap?”

Bellamy glances down at the sketchbook in her hands, impatient. He repeats, “Louvre’s about to close.”

Clarke swallows, nods. “Okay.”

-

Wallpapered with etchings and painted stories, the Louvre is nothing more than the home of ghosts. Clarke stands before the bright slants and glistening details of Grande Odalisque with a slight smile.

“Humans,” she muses to herself.  


Bellamy glances at her.

“There’s this quote by Maya Angelou. She’s - “

“I _know_ who Maya Angelou is,” Bellamy murmurs. They exchange the same sheepish glance.  


“Find a beautiful piece of art,” Clarke recites. “If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin - find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that that was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less."  


“Humans,” Bellamy echoes under a ragged breath.  


And he stares at her.

-

_\- barcelona -_

-

“In the princess’s car, again,” Bellamy remarks as the train chugs out of the station. A sleepy French voice reminds its passengers that this is an overnight to Barcelona. Clarke closes her eyes in disbelief. “They must have upgraded me.”  


“A stalker who calls it fate is still a stalker,” Clarke says. 

She’s smiling.  


-

On the eight hour ride, they exchange information like flirting is a tactical war game, collecting pieces of each other and stashing them away, savoring them like treats. 

She’s an only child, from Philadelphia and more money than he’s seen in his entire life, she smells like roses and rainy days, she’s supposed to be a med student, but she’s covered in dry paint.

He’s got a sister, never knew his father, travel is in his blood, adventure in his bones, his skin is calloused, and he’s a writer, a word collector, a counterpart. He tells her his mother passed and clears his throat too many times.

He throws a chip at her. They laugh like they’re surprised to be doing it. 

When the dark descends on their car, Clarke shrugs out of her bra underneath the cover of her shirt, and Bellamy pulls his tee off. She takes the top bunker and on the way up, her back brushes his front.

“Here, just...” Bellamy trails off, voice rough, and frowns at himself.  


“Yeah, sorry,” Clarke whispers back.  


The bunks are pointless. Neither of them sleep, just listen to the sound of their breaths in synchronicity, staring off at the world rolling by them, a silent question rolling over both of their tongues.

_What are you running from?_

-

If Paris was on fire, Barcelona is burnt to a crisp. The people are beautiful, the city an architectural miracle, rife with buildings that seem to lean over and whisper secrets to every passerby. 

Sauce drips down her chin at the grand food market, and Bellamy’s thumb twitches like he wants to wipe it off. He just nods at her, gestures to his own instead.

They find a place where the cement runs right into the sea, and Clarke blinks, something strange in her eyes, pulls her shirt off awkwardly, groans as it gets caught in her hair. Once she’s done, she whips it to the floor and runs into the water, shorts soaking around her thighs.

“Jesus,” Bellamy mutters under his breath. “Hey, princess! You done?” He bends down to pick up after her, gathering her shirt and shoes in one hand. He feigns anger as she splashes cheeks. Finally, he settles in beside her, gets his feet wet.  


Clarke shuts her eyes until she stops seeing metal wrapped around tree bark.

-

When they get to La Macarena, there’s a girl.

Clarke pats down her black shift dress and watches as Bellamy disappears into the crowd of sweaty, bright-eyed locals, all swaying to the beat. When the crowd gives, she sees that the long-haired beauty has her legs wrapped around him, and she’s pressing excited kisses to his cheek.

Clarke inhales before moving forward. “Look, I think I’m going to go find a hostel. I should probably - “

“Hey, princess,” Bellamy shouts back, grabbing her shoulder. “Meet my notorious baby sister, Octavia.” He smiles, the most carefree Clarke’s ever seen him. “Octavia, meet princess.”  


Clarke lets out that breath as Octavia pulls her in for a hug. “That the name on your birth certificate? Pretty catchy.”

Bellamy smirks. “Octavia’s an escapee. Blakes are supposed to be global vagabonds, and then someone fell in love.”

Octavia nudges her brother a little too hard. “You _like_ Lincoln.”

Bellamy grins. “I don’t hate him.”

Clarke watches, basking in their light exchange. Around them, the room pulses neon and electricity, bending and breaking with the turn of every sharp beat. A boy bumps into Clarke’s back, stumbles into her, places a sweaty hand on the small of her back, gives her a look that’s a little too long.

A hand comes down on his arm.

“Personal space?” Bellamy snaps as the other boy immediately backs away.

Immediately after, Bellamy straightens, looking uncomfortable. Clarke stares down at the floor.

Octavia smiles.

-

“You in love with my brother yet?”  


Clarke glances at Octavia, incredulous.

“Because you should be,” Octavia continues. She winks at Clarke, slings an arm around her, and drops a drink into the girl’s hand. 

When the song hits a lull, Octavia leans over to whisper, “I’m not sure that he’s going to find any better.”  


-

Clarke’s a little drunk.

“Wasted princess,” Bellamy groans as he helps her up the steps to Lincoln and Octavia’s flat. Clarke waggles her fingers at the handsome man Bellamy says hello to as they make it through the door. Lincoln smiles at the two of them, amused, and waves back before reaching for Octavia.  


Through a haze, Clarke watches as he spins the girl around in a circle, pulls her in for a deep kiss. And then Bellamy shuts the door behind him. Clarke sighs against his chest, has a hard time lifting her face from his shirt.

“This the same girl who didn’t even want my books touching hers in London?”  


“You’re really...” Clarke trails off, shakes her head, “blurry.”  


Bellamy helps her over to the bed and plops her down unceremoniously. “And you’re _really_ drunk.”

“We’re in Spain,” Clarke drawls, attempting to sit up on her elbows.   


Bellamy sighs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“We’re in Spain, and you haven’t kissed me. You _seriously_ haven’t kissed me,” Clarke slurs. Her eyes are unfocused, and her hair has come loose around her face, her skin is flushed with heat. “I mean, does the whole brooding silent type thing really work for you? Do you just go around meeting girls on trains and - “  


Bellamy kisses her.

His knees dig into the bed as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of her lips, tasting hard liquor on her skin, kissing again, then kissing again when she parts her lips and breathes him in. He slides a hand down her side, bunching up the thin sundress where it meets her tan thighs.

And then he pulls away.

Clarke blinks, attempts to stay awake. “Bellamy...”

He waits, but nothing comes after that.

-

That night, Bellamy stares at the ceiling from his spot on the floor, fists tight as Clarke cries about wrong turns and dead boys in her sleep.

-

_\- rome -_

-

They don’t talk about the kiss.

But when Clarke’s train departs for Rome, Bellamy is sitting right beside her, crumpling a stolen itinerary in his pocket, a paper cut fresh on the side of his finger. On the ride there, country lines blur into oblivion, and Bellamy relaxes his shoulders when Clarke drops her head onto one of them.

They don’t talk about that either.

-

It seems like the closer they get, the farther away Clarke is. She becomes stony as they walk along the remnants of battles and war torn men, blood-soaked earth and old bones. Bellamy keeps his eyes on her as they explore, but a part of him feels like he left her in Barcelona.

“You alright, princess?” he tries, giving her a gentle nudge.  


“I’m leaving,” Clarke whispers, finds a spot to sit in a shady corner of the piazza they’ve found. A statue looms up before them in the half-darkness, water drips onto stone, and hurt contorts onto Bellamy’s face before he can stop it.  


“Where to next?”  


“On my own, Bellamy. Somewhere where...life can’t catch up. Where I can start over, and...no one will find me,” Clarke says, voice empty and quiet. She bites down on her bottom lip, refuses to meet his eyes.  


“Clarke - “  


“Bellamy, I killed my friend,” she lets out, her voice breaking. A flock of pigeons flies off, and Bellamy blinks at them, head pounding. “It was a car accident. We were at a party, and my friends were drunk. I was sober, so I offered to be the designated driver.” Clarke hangs her head. “ _I_ was the sober one, the irony. And then there was a tree, a skid on the road. I got distracted for _one_ second.”  


Bellamy wants to touch her, but he’s paralyzed.

“His name was Wells,” Clarke said. “He was the only one of us who didn’t walk away from it. I couldn’t do it. You should’ve...seen how they looked at me in town. Like I should’ve been the one who - “  


“Hey,” Bellamy cuts in, shaking his head. “Everyone has their demons. Everyone’s haunted by something, but you can’t blame yourself for that, Clarke. An accident is exactly that.”  


He sounds a little desperate, a little unhinged, but she’s not listening.

Clarke sighs. “You don’t get it.”  


"I get that you don’t have to do this alone. We both got on the train here. We have something - “

“ _Exactly_ ,” Clarke says. “That’s exactly why I have to go. Don’t you get it, Bellamy? Bad things happen to the people I’m close to. You think I’m something you want. You think I’m a wave, but I’m a _storm_. And as hard as you try, you’re not rock, Bellamy. You can’t weather this.”  


“Clarke, _what_ do you need?” Bellamy breathes, exhausted. “Forgiveness? I’ll give that to you. It wasn’t your fault. Let me do this for you. Let me help you.”  


She’s shaking her head. He sees it in her eyes; Clarke’s already gone.

She disappears into the night, the ghost of a girl among all the rubble.

-

“Rome,” Bellamy marvels to himself, gravelly dirt slipping from his palms in cruel irony.  


She’s left him in ruins.

-

_\- london -_

-

This time, it’s a coffee shop.

-

It’s raining in London, just the way Clarke left it. In a sea of gray, everyone is anonymous, the buildings stand in uniform, and the Thames is as still as her heart. 

She might stay a while.

-

There’s a coffee shop she’s been frequenting under the flat she’s rented out for the month, this dingy little room littered with her paintings and drawings. One hanging by her fold-out bed, the portrait of a boy and a train window, eyes trained on a book. Within it, she’s drawn pieces of their story, attached the club tickets to his left hand, drawn crumbling columns behind him, the Eiffel Tower’s lights reflected in his eyes. 

The espresso burns her tongue when she sips it, but Clarke barely feels it.

“You know, princess, a stalker who calls it fate is still a stalker,” a voice calls from the table behind her.  


Clarke closes her eyes. 

It sounds a lot like home.


End file.
